


Heart Over Head

by Moonrose91



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moonrose91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did you chose me for the Harrowing?"</p><p>"I needed to make sure that you wouldn't let your heart rule your head."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Tests for the Price of One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meddalarksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meddalarksen/gifts).



> HAPPY 2015!!!
> 
> My New Year's Gift is a New Fic in a New Fandom in a New Year!
> 
> May this year be better than the last.

Greagoir's hands shook as he made his way to Knight-Commander Wymond's office. His heart hadn't stopped trying to beat out of his chest since the end of the Harrowing, of  _Irving's_  Harrowing, since he had been told he would deliver the killing blow if Irving failed if he was being honest with himself.

Irving had twitched before he had collapsed and in that moment, that moment of utter  _grief_ (and anger, for how  _dare_  Irving  _fail_  and leave him) Greagoir had reached up for his blade, to sink it into the apprentice who hadn't made it into a mage, and then Irving had collapsed and they said he passed when he did not rise again. The First Enchanter Miriam had him moved to the Apprentice Quarters and Greagoir had been excused and…

He couldn’t sleep, so here he stood, before the Knight-Commander’s office, hand poised to knock. With a shaky breath, he knocked on the door, surprised when Wymond's rough voice called, "Come in, Greagoir."

He entered, his armor feeling heavier than he'd ever felt before as he did so and Knight-Commander Wymond didn't raise his head. "What did you want to talk about Greagoir?" Wymond questioned as he lifted his head so Greagoir could see more than just his graying hair.

"Why did you chose me for the Harrowing?" Greagoir asked, feeling like he needed to know and Wymond sighed, setting his quill to the side before he leaned back, his armor gleaming silver along the edges in the orbs created by the Tranquil as he did so.

"I needed to make sure that you wouldn't let your heart rule your head," Wymond explained and Greagoir took a step back, feeling as if the breath was being driven from him.

"What are you talking about?" he asked and Wymond let out a low sigh before lifting his ungauntleted hand up to run over his pale face.

"Look, Greagoir, you're a good Templar. In fact, you are among the best I've ever seen. You're devoted and loyal, with a strong moral center and the willpower to back it up. So, I do not care if you have your romance with that Mage who passed today, so long as you don't let your heart rule your head, and that romance is discrete," Wymond stated and Greagoir frowned, trying to quell his panic.

Fraternizing with the apprentices was…all of his training told how it would mean his immediate removal from the Tower, possibly even being transferred to Orlais, to keep him separate, from his love, his life, his _family_ and he felt himself tense as he shook his head, trying to deny the truth without saying anything.

He would not voice a lie.

"Greagoir," Wymond stated and Greagoir looked at him and Wymond sighed.

"Look, it doesn't matter to me, so long as it stays discrete. You proved today that you would strike down the one who held your heart if need be. And so long as you continue to prove that, there will never be a reason to transfer you. Just....keep it quiet. Now, are you done panicking?" Wymond responded and Greagoir felt his frown deepen.

"I was not panicking, ser," he retorted and Wymond chuckled.

"Of course not. You're dismissed Greagoir," Wymond stated as he leaned back over his heavy wood desk.

“Thank you, ser,” Greagoir responded with a bow before he retreated, even if it felt like his legs would give out under him at any moment.

He felt a chill clinging to him, despite the warmth that filled the Tower. It reached, far under his armor and through his skin to his very marrow.

It almost hurt to breathe as he did his best not to shiver.

His hands were still shaking, covered in the chill of sweat as he removed his armor, putting it up as he did so, limbs trembling and he fell onto his bed, curling up tight under it as he forced himself to breathe through the images of Irving twisting into an _abomination_ and sinking his sword into Irving’s body.

What demon would have taken him? What would…

Greagoir swallowed harshly and closed his eyes, turning over in his bed and squeezing his eyes tight.

Maker curse his traitorous heart with every beat it took.

But he hoped the Maker never cursed the day he met Irving, even if it lead to his heart betraying the Chantry he swore to serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of writing this, there was, to my knowledge, no name of the Knight-Commander in Kinloch Hold/the Circle Tower.
> 
> I'm not bothering to slap an AU tag on, though if it offends anyone that I am not 100% accurate, I will.


	2. The Beginning Days

Greagoir shifted his weight to be more evenly balanced as he continued to stand outside of the Library, thankful now that he had listened to the advice of Templars who had served in a Circle about the stones.

Even if they were from Orlais.

It was his first day and he didn’t want to leave a poor imp-…

“Hello,” a soft male voice greeted and Greagoir’s eyes glanced up, over, surprised to realize that it was not two Mages exchanging a quiet greeting, but an Apprentice Mage, recognizable by the robes, with streaks of gray through his black hair, greeting _him_.

A _Templar._

Greagoir felt his eyes narrow at the Apprentice Mage slightly, but the Apprentice Mage ignored him, walking into the Library. Greagoir let out a soundless sigh through his nose, settled on his feet again, and stared straight ahead, doing his best to ignore the Mages within.

“Irving, about time you showed,” a female voice greeted.

“My apologies Wynne, but of all of us here, I am the only one who has not gone through the Harrowing, thus I am still beholden to my mentor,” the voice of the one who had greeted him responded.

Greagoir rolled his shoulders slightly and settled down even as he listen to four Mages and one Apprentice Mage discuss magical theory.

And, if Greagoir wasn’t mistaken, it seemed that the Apprentice, Irving, was leading the discussion.

*~*~*

Every day for the week of Greagoir’s Library Duty, which Greagoir shared with an experienced Templar, Irving said ‘hello’ to him.

Greagoir never responded and, at the end of the week, Greagoir was assigned to peremiter patrols.

It was, mostly, quiet, with the other Templars who he had trained with that laughed at his stoic nature being the only ones to break the silence.

Being a fifth born son with nothing to look forward to in an occupied country did that to someone, and he occasionally glared at the more…excitable of the Templars, their direct commander, René, occasionally glaring back at them all whenever it got especially rowdy.

“Did you train with all of them?” the Templar, René, questioned.

“Yes,” Greagoir answered.

“How did you turn out so…calm?” René asked.

“Previous experience,” Greagoir responded and René laughed.

Greagoir found himself back inside, standing guard at the Library once more the next day.

He couldn’t say he was happy with it, as at least walking along the perimeter allowed him to _move_.

Instead, he settled in for a long wait.

So, he was surprised when he heard Irving say, “Hello again.”

He glanced over, and then looked forward again, noticing that Irving had more gray since the last time he had seen him and subtly flexed his legs to keep them from cramping.

“You know, I think I actually missed your statuesque self during the past two weeks,” Irving stated and Greagoir, mentally, gritted his teeth, focusing on one of the stones.

Irving chuckled lowly and Greagoir continued to ignore him, even as Irving walked past him and into the Library where he was greeted by the Mages from before.

*~*~*

It continued like this, no matter where Greagoir was placed.

He was constantly moved about, mostly kept to the Apprentice Quarters (which, of course, had him seeing Irving quite a bit more often), the Training Grounds and supervising the Apprentice Mages’ outside time. And any time Irving walked past him, he always said hello.

And then an Apprentice Mage escaped from the Circle.

Greagoir had only been at the Circle for three months and so he was surprised when the Knight-Commander said he was to go.

“Only to observe,” the Knight-Commander, Wymond, stated, hair a thick gray that made Greagoir wonder if it was only age that had turned Wymond’s hair so, or if stress was a factor.

Greagoir knew his own father had turned gray quickly from the stress of balancing his own loyalty to Fereldan against the future of his line against Orlais.

It was difficult, to say the least.

“Of course, ser,” Greagoir responded and Wymond nodded.

“Very good,” Wymond stated and sent Greagoir out.

*~*~*

It took them a month to finally track down the runaway Mage Apprentice, a young, male, Human.

He couldn’t have been more than eight, his red hair bright even under the muck of it being unwashed for who knew how long.

He was trembling and scared, and fought like a man possessed, and Greagoir had to step in to catch him, the boy clawing at his gauntleted hand, though Greagoir knew the Apprentice wouldn’t bruise, badly. The way he kept struggling, Greagoir couldn’t keep from _not_ bruising him.

“Stop this, now. You’re just making it worse for yourself,” Greagoir intoned sharply and the Apprentice stilled before he slumped slightly and began to sob.

“I just want my mama,” he sobbed and Greagoir gently pat the boy’s shoulder before he, carefully turned him over to the head of the hunting, for lack of a better term, expedition, a woman by the name of Helena.

“That’s no reason to run away. The Circle is to protect you as much as it is to protect others. You have no control and that lack of control can burn down your home, burn down a neighbor’s home, hurt your mama even. You are here to learn that control and while, yes, the sacrifice is that you may never see your mama again, you will have learned control, meaning you will not be a danger to those outside the Circle _if_ the First Enchanter allows you to leave to visit your mama once you become a Mage,” Greagoir stated and the boy just nodded, still sobbing even as he lead to where the horse-drawn wagon waited.

Easier to transport runaways that way.

Greagoir ignored the way the other Templars stared at him until one said, “That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say.”

Greagoir glared at him, briefly, before he focused forward and marched over to the wagon.

*~*~*

“You were sent to observe,” Wymond stated.

“Yes, ser,” Greagoir agreed.

“Glad you didn’t listen. That Apprentice, his name is Aiden. He’s been…difficult. His mother didn’t want to give him up, cried a great deal. He’s been surly, and the First Enchanter was coming to her wits end, poor dear,” Wymond stated with a soft chuckle and shook his head slightly.

Greagoir waited patiently as Wymond leaned back in his chair. “Why did you talk to him, instead of just knocking him out?” Wymond asked.

“He didn’t try to use his magic, ser. I figured if he wasn’t really trying to escape, there was no need for drastic measures. In the end, ser, I think he was just a scared little boy,” Greagoir answered and Wymond nodded a bit.

“Well, Aiden will be punished for running, but he’s already stopped being so upset, so whatever you said, good job recruit. I think…you have a future at this Circle,” Wymond answered.

“Thank you, ser,” Greagoir responded.

“Dismissed Greagoir,” Wymond stated and Greagoir nodded, gave a bow, and left the office.

*~*~*

Standing outside the Library, Greagoir wondered if this was to be his permanent position. He knew most recruit Templars were kept to the lower places with calm senior Templars standing at even paces to keep the recruits from harming the Apprentices, if a prank got out of hand.

Greagoir resisted the urge to snort and shake his head.

Those who could not handle teenagers acting out should not be in a Tower.

Besides, no harm would be done if they just cleansed the area, the damage stilled or even reversed if done with magic, which most of the older Apprentices, who did most of the pranks, used anyway.

“Hello,” Irving greeted.

“Hello,” Greagoir responded and Irving stopped so fast he almost sent himself tumbling head over heels through the Library entrance.

And then he smiled at Greagoir. “The statue speaks,” he stated and Greagoir scowled at him, Irving chuckling lowly, softly before he slipped inside.

Greagoir resisted the urge to shake his head and instead focused forward.

“Irving, who were you talking to?” Wynne greeted.

“Oh, the new Templar,” Irving responded.

“Greagoir? But he…he doesn’t talk. _Ever_ ,” a new voice, also female, protested.

“Pity. It is quite a nice voice,” Irving responded and Greagoir pointedly focused on the stone in front of him, willing his face to stop burning.


	3. Arguments and Shielding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has an Apprentice Mage failing their Harrowing.
> 
> What follows is becoming an abomination and being killed, so there is death in this chapter.
> 
> If you are not in a safe place to handle it, please tread carefully.

“You Templars have no respect for the theory behind the gift of magic,” Irving snapped, even as Greagoir resisted the urge to just smack either his own head, or Irving’s, against the nearest hard surface, mainly the stone wall at Greagoir’s back.

“Do not lump us all into one group,” Greagoir intoned and Irving made a disgruntled sound which _almost_ made Greagoir smile.

He didn’t, but he almost did.

Something about Irving seemed to soften as it so rarely did during their arguments, which Greagoir had come to enjoy in the month since he had responded to Irving instead of staying silent. “Oh? And do tell me how _you_ are any different from the rest?” Irving questioned and Greagoir noticed that the older Templar he was assigned with had shifted his weight slightly.

“I do, in fact, have respect for the theory behind the gift, it is just that I do not think it is wise to implement a theory before giving it proper practice,” Greagoir responded softly, shifting his body slightly so that he was a shield between Irving and the Templar that Greagoir didn’t know (Greagoir didn’t socialize well with the other Templars for they always seemed to try and break his stoic mask), wondering if he was going mad when he realized what he had done.

He ignored it however, because Irving was poking at his armored chest.

“And how do you expect me to practice a theory without implementing it?” Irving demanded.

“By doing research into similar theories. There must be something about that in the Library, most likely in the Spirit Healer and Fade sections, that could involve your theories about the Spirits within the Fade, that not all are malicious, and could become _guardians_ ,” Greagoir stated and Irving stared at him before he let out a low huff.

“Quite possibly yes,” Irving admitted and Greagoir barely managed to keep a smug smirk off his face.

It was rare that he won one of their arguments in a way that actually felt like a _win_ and he nearly stepped back when Irving glared up at him with dark brown eyes. “How did you know we have sections on being a Spirit Healer and the Fade?” he inquired.

“I would think it wise that a Library for Mages would contain knowledge that pertained to Mages more than any other in all of Thedas,” Greagoir responded and Irving glared a bit more before he nodded.

“Well, I’ll shall take your advice then,” Irving stated and walked into the Library while Greagoir retook his normal position.

“He’s…mouthy, for a mage,” the Templar stated.

“You’re mouthy for a Templar,” Greagoir responded.

*~*~*

“Was that necessary?” Irving shouted at Greagoir and Greagoir wondered if he would grow to hate Apprentice Quarters duty.

“She had set fire to half of the beds,” Greagoir pointed out and Irving let out a strangled noise, even as he poked Greagoir’s armor, hard.

It was obvious, from the way he shook his hand after, he hurt himself with the action. “That was no reason to _blast the floor_!” Irving snapped.

“I was focused on the room. I had no idea the whole Apprentice Floor was hit with a cleanse,” Greagoir responded.

Irving’s hand clenched into a fist and a male Templar, sounding far too smug, said, “Is there a problem?”

Greagoir glanced over and immediately shifted his position between Irving and the other Templar, not even trying to hide it, putting his arm up to fill up more space.

The fact a majority of the Apprentice Mages were behind him was just a coincidence.

He was not protecting…

Yes, yes he was.

Greagoir had memorized Mathias.

He liked being a Templar for the fact he could lord power over someone. The fifth son of a noble and a mistress had been bad for him, and he had escaped to the Chantry, and the Templars, shortly thereafter.

Greagoir wanted him out of the Tower.

“No, there is no problem,” Greagoir answered and Mathias frowned, pale freckled skin wrinkling between his eyebrows and around his mouth and eyes.

Greagoir didn’t move from his position of filling the hallway, keeping the Mages behind him, even though he knew some of the Templar abilities would reach past Greagoir and hit any of the Mages behind him.

“Get back to your rooms, now,” Greagoir barked, and Irving began to protest, even as Greagoir made a sharp sound.

“I said back to your rooms _Apprentice_ ,” Greagoir barked and hoped it wouldn’t shatter their friendship beyond all beyond repair.

“Greagoir, is there a problem?” Knight-Commander Wymond demanded as he walked in, First Enchanter Miriam at his heels.

“Not yet, ser,” Greagoir answered eyes never leaving Mathias as the other Templar glared at Greagoir, and Wymond stopped behind Greagoir.

“I heard yelling,” he stated.

“Just a loud discussion,” Greagoir stated and Wymond made a sound.

“Mathias, stand down. Everything seems to be under control,” Wymond said.

“You think so? Greagoir’s protecting the mages! One of them is a Blood Mage and has him enthralled!” Mathias snarled and Greagoir tensed.

No, he was _not_ enthralled by a Blood Mage! He was protecting the _Apprentice_ Mages because he was terrified Mathias would just…Greagoir wasn’t sure what he would do, but he knew that it would be bad and some of the Apprentices had equally short tempers and would retaliate and…

Most weren’t even adults (he knew a couple of the Apprentices were of age, but the Circle was quite loose about throwing Apprentices into the Harrowing the day they came of age. As Wymond had said, “That would make us no better than apostates,” whatever that meant. Greagoir had just nodded when he heard it), but he was.

Greagoir was an adult, understanding fully of the consequences of his actions, and so he would stand between them and Mathias.

He nearly flinched when he felt a hand press against his back, felt through the armor, even though it was plate.

It was being enhanced by magic. “Greagoir, everyone is inside their quarters,” Irving stated.

“Except you,” Greagoir retorted.

“Except me,” Irving agreed and then the presence was gone (and Greagoir missed it, though he did not otherwise react) and the door pointedly shut.

Greagoir relaxed, taking up only his usual portion of the hallway which was much less than his broad-shouldered frame suggested he should take up. “Mathias, Greagoir, to my office. Now,” Wymond stated.

*~*~*

Mathias was gone by the end of the day.

Greagoir was put on border patrol for a week.

It was a rotten week and Greagoir did not desire to know why.

(He was afraid of the answer.)

*~*~*

The night he got back, Wymond was waiting and already dragging him up to the Harrowing chamber at the top of the Tower.

“Observation of a Harrowing. You’ll be along the edges. I have your helmet,” Wymond stated, already shoving it into his arms.

“Knight-Commander,” Greagoir began to protest, but fell silent when Wymond merely glared and continued to lead him up the steps as Greagoir tugged his helmet, which he hated to wear, on.

Set at the wall, Greagoir was placed against the wall, Meriam soon leading an Elf apprentice in, one Greagoir recognized as a loner named Pitor.

He had come later than most, but had dedicated himself to the theory and practice, if the way he lingered around the library was any indication.

Greagoir settled as he had been taught as they explained the Harrowing to the Elf and settled in to wait.

It was long, the light of the moon fading and the false dawn spreading, when the Elf finally twitched and pulled back. “Blood and damnation,” Wymond cursed, even as Greagoir watched the Elf begin to twist.

He didn’t hesitate, leaping forward and pulling the First Enchanter Miriam back and away from the…abomination, even as the Templar, Owen, hesitated against striking…

The abomination fell, half-twisted, the Knight-Commander’s sword sunk into chest before Wymond cut up and the abomination fell in two.

“Owen, get packed. You’ll be returned to a Chantry by mid-morning,” Wymond snarled and Greagoir carefully released the First Enchanter, who seemed shaken.

“I thought…” she murmured and Wymond nodded.

“Me too,” he responded.

“Greagoir, you have today off. Try to get back onto the proper sleep pattern,” Wymond ordered.

“Yes, ser,” Greagoir responded from inside his helmet and quickly retreated.

*~*~*

Greagoir shot up straight in bed, panting and gasping before he clenched the sheets. “Bad Harrowing?” a Templar asked and Greagoir nodded, even though that wasn’t the truth, not really.

His nightmare had been with Irving.

Irving in Piotr’s place.

He swallowed back bile that was climbing up his throat.

Blood and _damnation_.


	4. Confessions

Greagoir stared at the wall in front of him, wondering if his face showed his lack of sleep.

His dreams, if such horrific things could be called dreams, had been plagued with watching Irving turn into an abomination, get ripped apart by an abomination, be possessed by a Desire demon and…

That had been a bad dream to have, but in a different sense, had left Greagoir flinching and cursing himself.

“Greagoir?” Irving called and Greagoir quickly looked over at him.

“Irving,” he responded softly and Irving frowned, leaning in closer to him.

“I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes. Are you all right?” Irving questioned and Greagoir nodded slightly, which only had Irving frowning more.

“Well, if you can’t sleep tonight, see if you can sneak down. We Apprentice mages have a stock of sleep aids to help us get through the nights,” Irving stated and Greagoir tilted his head to the side.

“Nightmares?” he questioned.

“When anyone with magic enters the Fade, we…attract attention. Sleep gives us a slight barrier, for that is the time _all_ enter the Fade. Except for Dwarves, I believe. As I have never met a Dwarf I cannot ask, but, as those with magic’s gift are more in tune with the Fade, we remain…mostly aware and, as such, can feel the malevolent spirits, or demons, come close. As such, we often have nightmares. Aids are for those who are more in tune than others, or the stress weakens the barrier. It allows us to rest and be better prepared to face the next day,” Irving answered and Greagoir frowned.

“You…you always have nightmares?” Greagoir asked, feeling as if he was helpless in this situation.

How could he…

No, no, _no_.

He did _not_ want to _protect_ …

“Yes, always,” Irving reaffirmed and Greagoir nodded a bit.

Of course.

“If you need to talk…” Greagoir offered, though he was unsure of _what_ he was offering and his heart lightened at Irving’s smile.

“Thank you, Greagoir,” Irving stated and Greagoir gave him a small smile before he focused on the stone in front of him again, noticing out of the corner of his eye how Irving smiled broadly at him before disappearing into the library.

*~*~*

“I would like to request night Apprentice Quarters duty, ser,” Greagoir stated and Wymond gestured to the chair across from his desk.

Greagoir sat down, feeling uncomfortable in his loose tunic and leggings, but being off-duty meant he didn’t have a reason to wear his armor, no matter how much he wanted to wear it.

“Care to tell me why?” Wymond questioned.

“I think it would be a nice change,” Greagoir answered and Wymond nodded.

“You’ll start this weekend. Try to go to sleep nine hours before dinner, go to dinner, and then be prepared for a _long_ night,” Wymond stated and Greagoir nodded.

“Thank you, ser,” Greagoir responded and stood up when Wymond excused him.

*~*~*

“Greagoir,” Irving greeted, a small furrow between his eyebrows, and voice a little higher than normal.

“Irving,” Greagoir responded.

Irving glanced at the hallway, and back at him. “This is the apprentice quarters,” Irving stated.

Greagoir nodded calmly and Irving frowned slightly. “Were you assigned here as punishment for something?” Irving questioned and Greagoir shook his head.

“Oh…all right then. Good night Greagoir,” Irving stated.

“Good night Irving. Maker guard your dreams,” Greagoir responded and Irving nodded slowly before slipping into the apprentice’s quarters, the door shutting quietly behind him.

*~*~*

It became the new ritual for the next three days (or night, as it were), seeing each other as Irving went to his quarters for the night and again the next morning when Greagoir was relieved from duty, weary and exhausted.

On the fourth day, Greagoir nearly jumped out of his armor when Irving suddenly appeared at his shoulder. “Is it nightmares?” Irving asked softly and Greagoir glanced down the hallway, noting that his ‘partner’, Brienne, was very pointedly not looking his way (then again, she was having a tryst with a mage, so that may be why) and looked back at Irving before he nodded.

“Does it help?” Irving asked and Greagoir shook his head.

“It isn’t my nightmares,” Greagoir murmured softly.

“I did not think…”

“It is your nightmares,” Greagoir explained and Irving started slightly, nearly smacking his head into stone behind him.

“I can perfectly…” Irving growled and Greagoir shook his head.

“I can’t…it doesn’t matter. It is me being stupid, but it is not fear that you will lose yourself as you dream. It is just…me, being stupid,” Greagoir interrupted quietly and glanced up the hallway.

“You best get back inside. It is after curfew,” Greagoir added and Irving nodded before he slipped back inside, even as Greagoir focused on the wall opposite, pretending he couldn’t feel the warmth on his face.

The next morning Brienne smirked at him. “Oh, you have it _bad_ ,” she taunted.

“If you keep silent, so shall I,” Greagoir responded and Brienne smiled as she nodded in agreement.

“Then we don’t have a problem,” Greagoir stated as he headed to his quarters.

*~*~*

“What did you mean?” Irving asked three nights later, after having ignored Greagoir the entire time.

“About what?” Greagoir responded, not looking at him.

“About whatever it was was you being stupid,” Irving elaborated.

Greagoir let out a long sigh and glanced down to Brienne, who seemed to be holding back her laugher at his situation. It seemed having similar tastes (mages) had bonded them and she now spent time with him, which had other Templars laughing and making jokes and trying to have _comradery_ with him.

He disliked it, enjoying quiet bonding time, such as what he shared with Aster, Estelle, Jerimiah, and even Knight-Commander Wymond.

He couldn’t handle many of the more…jocular people and, over the past four days, he had grown to like Brienne too.

She was louder than most, and admitted that it was due to the fact she was the oldest of twelve and had gotten too used to shouting over others, but for now he found her irritating.

“Just…just me being stupid, Mage Apprentice Irving,” Greagoir responded and Irving gave a soft snort.

“Is it the same kind-of stupid that makes me want to yank you down by your armor and see if kissing you makes you more stupid?” Irving questioned and Greagoir felt his face blaze with heat.

Brienne choked for air down the hallway.

“It is,” Greagoir responded and let out a surprised sound when Irving did just that.


	5. Blood Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a not-really-graphic death in this chapter, but for those that are not mentally okay at the moment with death, please tread carefully.

“Irving,” Greagoir sighed out and Irving smiled at him in a way that made Greagoir swallow harshly and be thankful for the fact he was wearing plate armor, even if it allowed Irving to hook his fingers on it to pull him in for another kiss.

Greagoir let out a sigh, kissing back gently, hoping that whatever it was that Irving had done that ‘assured they wouldn’t get caught’ would hold. He let out a sound as Irving dug his hands into Greagoir’s hair, and Greagoir’s hands grabbed onto Irving’s surprisingly firm waist under soft cotton. He let out a low sound when Irving tugged his hair to get him into a better position, completely dominating the kiss and Greagoir let out a happy sigh against Irving’s soft mouth, even as Irving pulled back slightly, Greagoir leaning forward to follow him, nose bumping against Irving’s.

“Your lips are chapped,” Irving commented idly and Greagoir blinked a bit before he slowly rested his forehead against Irving’s.

“It is winter, and I just came off border patrol,” Greagoir responded.

“What’s winter like, outside of the Tower? It must have snowed recently, since they are keeping us in,” Irving inquired as he slid his arms to wrap them around Greagoir’s shoulders, hands linked against the back of his neck while Greagoir shifted his grip to keep his arms wrapped loosely around Irving’s waist.

When Irving…leaned, Greagoir backed up until his back came in contact with the stone wall behind him and he sighed, even as Irving pressed a soft kiss to his lips again. “Yes, it snowed,” Greagoir answered against Irving’s lips.

“The lake froze over, to the point I could walk across it, even if full armor,” he continued and Irving shuddered.

“How do you know that?” Irving grumbled between kisses pressed to Greagoir’s face and Greagoir closed his eyes, letting out a surprise of sound when Irving pressed soft kisses against his eyelids.

“I may have walked across it,” Greagoir murmured.

“Please don’t do that. If you fall through, you’ll drown. This armor can’t be easy to get out of,” Irving responded.

Greagoir was about to respond when he felt a…twinge and he pulled his head away, snapping it to the door. “You need to let me go,” he stated.

“Greagoir, what is it?” Irving asked, even as Greagoir carefully extracted himself.

“Not now,” Greagoir muttered as he moved to the…oh, it was a little room for books that needed repair.

He hadn’t been paying much attention when Irving had grabbed him on his way to his quarters and pulled him in here with…

Bad thoughts, he shouldn’t continue to think that.

Especially with that _buzz_ going off in his head and he stepped out of the room, in time to see a female apprentice, blood dripping from her hand, spin on her heel and slam her hand up, sending three Templars flying back.

He didn’t pause, he just focused and shut the door behind him just as he released a Cleanse Area, feeling it slam harmlessly into the wood behind him, even as she stumbled. Brienne surged around the corner then, Greagoir making sure the door stayed closed behind him as Brienne cut through the Blood Mage like a hot knife through butter, the woman dropping and the blood staining the stone.

“Good work. Why are you here?” Brienne questioned.

“I was checking to make sure no one was hiding in the room,” he answered, tightening his grip on the doorknob when he felt it wiggle against…

He wasn’t wearing his gauntlets.

Irving had removed them.

Brienne raised an eyebrow at his bare hands. “I was looking at the books because I was released from duty,” Greagoir bit out and Brienne nodded, even as the other Templars came around the corner, some already helping their commerades-in-arms.

“Rudford is dead,” one stated and Brienne nodded.

“Let’s clear the body. Good work Donne, doing that Cleanse Aura. Why don’t you check the book repair room?” Brienne stated and Greagoir nodded.

“Recruit Greagoir, Ser Brienne,” Wymond called and Greagoir resisted the urge to close his eyes in deep regret, though he was thankful the doorknob had stopped moving against his palm.

He was going to get dishonorably discharged from the Templars and he had only risked his position for a month and a half.

It had to be a record.

“Ser,” they intoned in one voice and the Knight-Commander glanced at the form.

“How did you know about the trouble, Recruit Greagoir?” Wymond questioned.

“A buzz, ser. A…feeling mostly,” he admitted cautiously and Wymond nodded.

“Go check out that room, then come up to my office to report, immediately,” Wymond answered and Greagoir nodded, slipping right into the room, shooting Irving a look when he opened his mouth.

The Apprentice Mage shut his mouth, even as the Templar Recruit shut the door.

*~*~*

“Did you find anything?” Knight-Commander Wymond asked.

“Mage Apprentice Irving. He was repairing a book,” Greagoir answered.

Wymond nodded. “You’re taking your vows in two days, so you’ll be taken off by the Revered Mother at the end of this conversation,” he stated and Greagoir nearly flinched at the suddenness.

He was not looking forward to the fasting that would go on before the vows. He was very much wishing he had remembered to eat before coming here, but he had been more worried, and covering, for Irving.

“Yes, ser,” Greagoir responded softly.

“That night, you’ll be at a Harrowing. You’re executioner, if they fail,” Wymond stated and Greagoir frowned slightly.

“Who is it?” he questioned.

“Who is what, Recruit Greagoir?” Wymond answered.

“The apprentice,” Greagoir clarified.

“Mage Apprentice Irving,” Wymond responded and Greagoir felt as if all the air had been removed his lungs.

“Is there a problem?” Wymond questioned and Greagoir shook his head.

“No, ser,” Greagoir answered.

“Then you are dismissed,” Wymond stated and Greagoir nodded, saluted, and left.

The Revered Mother was waiting for him, as Wymond said, and he was escorted down to the Chantry within the Tower.

And for the next two days, he memorized every feel, touch, and _taste_ of Irving, knowing he might lose it all the night he held his sword for the Maker, and not himself, for the first time.


	6. A Circle Has No End

Greagoir looked up from the desk that had once been Wymond’s, though it had gained a few more gouges since the first day Greagoir had seen it, had it bit more wear, when a knock echoed through the office.

He had a feeling he knew who it was on the other side and took a shot in the dark. “Come in Cullen,” he greeted and was not disappointed as Cullen Rutherford walked into the room.

Twenty years old and looking as if he had just gone through a trial by fire, which is exactly what he had gone through.

"Why did you chose me for the Harrowing?" Cullen asked and Greagoir barely stopped from smiling at hearing his question asked so many years ago parroted back at him.

"I needed to make sure that you wouldn't let your heart rule your head," Greagoir answered and was sure that, somewhere in the Fade, former Knight-Commander Wymond was laughing at him.

**Author's Note:**

> I ship Irving and Greagoir so hard.


End file.
